


(Everything I Do) I Do It For You

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Doctor John, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Recovery, Sherlock-centric, Smut, Stubborn Sherlock, The Reichenbach Fall, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's Fall goes wrong, and he's left paralyzed. Will he get through this, or will John eventually leave him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Everything I Do) I Do It For You

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this more than a month a go and I don't know why I've waited this long to publish this, but here you go!
> 
> (The title is from Brian Adams' song "(Everything I do) I do it for you")

It was halfway down when Sherlock realized he was very likely going to die.

On the pavement, everything around him was a blur. There was a ringing in his ears that screeched at his brain, but no matter how hard he tried to plug his ears, he couldn’t seem to move his arms. Voices were mere muttering sounds, too chaotic for his brain to translate.

Sherlock blinked rapidly as the pain throughout his body increased. All he could really focus on was the ground, covered in red water—or was it blood? It had been drizzling moments ago, hadn’t it?

 _The blood actually looks real._ He thought oddly. A voice spoke above the rapid noises, grabbing Sherlock’s attention at the sound of his name.

“Let me through please, no he’s my friend—,” John cried from above. Sherlock tried to look, but a spasm of pain shot through his body, vibrating down to his waist and then vanishing.

_My legs are uninjured then, or—oh…_

Sherlock felt a wave of sudden fear, a feeling he hadn’t truly felt since the case of the hounds of Baskerville. Sherlock tried to make a noise, but when he opened his mouth, a choked cough escaped instead, and was followed by something warm dribbling down his chin.

“He’s choking on his blood, please, let me—.” John’s voice was there again, and then gone abruptly. Hands grabbed at Sherlock, but then were pushed away, commanding them to don’t move him.

“His spine may be injured. Get Molly!”

The pain only increased as a stretcher was rolled beside him, and then he felt hands on his throat, securing it with some kind of hard plastic. Sherlock tried to move away, he wanted to make sure John was all right. After all, the fall was for him.

Hands held him down as he was placed on the gurney, and then the sky in front of him was moving before disappearing all together into a tunnel of darkness.

The voices submerged as the distance grew, except a set of running feet was following him, the man’s ragged breaths echoing through the entrance to the hospital.

“Molly let me know—”

“Yes.” Sherlock darted his eyes to the figure above him. Molly was staring at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry Sherlock. The plan didn’t work,” she choked. He simply blinked at her as a bright light was shined in his face. He grimaced but couldn’t look away. Gloved hands were removing his clothing, piercing his skin with metal tips and inserting cold fluids.

As darkness encircled Sherlock’s vision, he managed to choke out a name, asking for the one person he wanted to be sure was safe.

“John.”  

*            *            *

Everything in Sherlock’s body was aching. The noises from the hallway echoed into his room, increasing the headache currently throbbing against his skull. He could tell before opening his eyes that the room was dimed, but he could not tell if it was daytime, or how much time had past.

Taking a deep breath as he started to open his eyes, a blow of pain shot through his chest and he let out a groan.

There was a rustle of movement beside him, and then a warm hand taking his, which he found softened the pain—however it was little change.

“It’s going to be all right,” the voice murmured. Sherlock felt the effects of morphine kicking in again, and just as he managed to open his eyes, he fell back asleep, with the image of John looking down at him.

*            *            *

The next time Sherlock woke, he was in even more pain, which he found unbelievable. But he also was more aware of his surroundings—however no one was around—and was able to keep his eyes open for a full minute before falling back into oblivion.

*            *            *

Sunlight was streaming in, blinding into Sherlock eyes even while they were closed. He turned his head the other direction, and heard a soft intake of breath from beside him. He opened them slowly, and saw John looking at him, relief washing over his face as he looked over the detective.

“Oh Sherlock,” John whispered. He leaned forward and took Sherlock’s hand in his and squeezed gently. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for more than a week.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, and kept his gaze on their interlocked hands. He tried to recall what had happened, but only remembered fragments. He had spoken to Moriarty, and stood on the edge, talking to John, and then... Flashes of light. Blood. Pain. John.

Sherlock looked at John and opened his mouth to speak, but could only manage a raspy exhale. John squeezed his hand and sighed.

“Your throat’s dry because the continuous intubation, so you won’t be able to speak for a bit. They took you off the machine last night, since you were trying to breathe on your own. But they—the doctors—want you to stay on your back for a little bit before sitting you up.”

Sherlock exhaled roughly, and licked his chapped lips. He tried to speak again, but he only croaked. He let out a frustrated huff and looked up at the ceiling.

John didn’t let go of his hand, and rubbed it gently with his thumb. “Do you remember anything? Just nod your head if you do.”

Sherlock nodded.

John paused. “Do you…want me to tell you what happened, what your injuries are?” John was hesitant, and…something was different now that Sherlock thought about it. John was nervous about something.

Sherlock nodded and looked at John. John looked at their interlocked hands as he spoke, rubbing Sherlock’s knuckles as soothingly as possible.

“You…fell. And landed on your right side.You broke a couple of ribs; there was some internal bleeding—a lot actually. Your right shoulder popped out of its socket, but it was an easy fix. And…” John inhaled sharply and blinked rapidly. Sherlock thought he heard his voice shake, but wasn’t sure.

“Sherlock…” _Oh this is bad then._

“You broke your back in the landing.” John met his eyes, and they were indeed glistening, but no tears were falling. “You’re paralyzed. From the waist down. There may be some feeling left, but…”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, comprehending what he said. It took him longer than he would have liked, but once he grasped it, he simply blinked and turned his head away, directing his gaze up to the ceiling.

_Nonononononononono_

Sherlock removed his hand from John and laid it over his lap. He clenched his fists and closed is eyes, banishing the emotion forming behind his lids. John’s breathing had hitched at the lost of contact, but he stayed where he was beside Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes for the rest of the morning, and fell into a light doze until a group of medical staff came in, waking him up.

*            *            *

Sherlock’s fists were clenched, as was his jaw, and he couldn’t help but look up at John, who was standing by his side, his hands resting on the bed. There were a couple of nurses around him on both sides of the bed, one near the switches, ready to shift him upwards.

“Ready?” the nurse asked gently.

Sherlock nodded, and closed his eyes, ignoring John’s offer to hold his hand. The nurse pushed the switch and the bed began to move upwards. It only moved an inch, and pain shot through Sherlock’s chest and back, vanishing at his waist. He clenched his jaw, muffling his groaning as the bed shifted again, two more inches, and then a pause. He breathed in deeply, ignoring the tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes. He was already breaking out into a sweat. He refused to look at John, but grabbed the offered hand before it was out of reach.

The bed moved one more time, and Sherlock whimpered loudly. He suddenly felt dizzy, and as the bed came to a halt, the people around him became blurs and their voices muffled.

“He should try to eat something once he wakes up.”

“Can I speak to the doctor?” John asked. “About a few things.”

Sherlock fell asleep before he could hear the rest.

*            *            *

Sherlock woke up to the sound of shuffling beside him. He peaked his eyes open and saw a nurse observing his arm.

“How’s your arm feeling?” the nurse asked gently.

Sherlock licked his dry lips. “Fine,” he rasped. He was still in pain, and looked over at the morphine drip.

“Still in a bit of pain?” She asked just as John walked in.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. The nurse reached behind her and pushed a button, and then a wave of numbness washed over him. John walked over to his other side and placed his hands on the railing. Sherlock could tell he was thinking of something to do to help, and suddenly felt irritated. He opened his mouth to speak his thoughts, only to unexpectedly feel nauseous.

John’s brows furrowed, and then relaxed, recognizing Sherlock’s face. He reached behind him and quickly placed a plastic bowl in front of Sherlock just as he heaved.

Sherlock coughed up the little substance he had and then laid back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes closed and grimacing from moving his body too fast. His injured ribs throbbed hard in his chest, and it wasn’t showing any sign of settling down.

The nurse proceeded in checking his other wounds as John got rid of the vomit.

The nurse left, and then they were alone. John hovered by the bed, his eyes darting from the screen that showed Sherlock’s vitals, to Sherlock’s body, and observed his wounds without actually touching him.

“You should try eat something,” John said as he sat down in the same chair that remained by his bedside since Sherlock woke up. It appeared John rarely left it, since there were indents nearly permanent from sitting and sleeping in it.

Sherlock stared at John. “I just—.”

“I know, I know,” John said quickly. “It just might help, that’s all…” he trailed off with a mutter.

Sherlock looked away and rested against the pillow. He stared at the window and watched the raindrops race each other until they reached the windowsill.

John shifted beside him and picked up a plastic cup. Sherlock heard him pour water, and then add a straw before putting it near Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock kept his mouth closed and didn’t acknowledge him.

John sighed, however it wasn’t his normal aggravated sigh, but a different one, one that was nearly pitiful and sent disgust in Sherlock’s throat.

“You need to drink something. We don’t want you getting dehydrated.”

“Whose we?” Sherlock responded before he could stop himself. His throat was sore, but it didn’t hurt to talk. It was the most he had spoken since…well since this entire stay, and he could feel John looking at him.

“I, I don’t want you to stay in here any longer than you need to,” John said carefully. “I’m sure you’d want to be at home the sooner the better.”

“I’m not going home.”

“What?” John stuttered.

“You heard me.”

John huffed with disbelief. “It’s your home. Why wouldn’t you—.”

“Mycroft will send me to some…recovery place,” Sherlock said, stopping himself from mentioning a safe house. He hadn’t told John yet about Moriarty’s network, and was sure Mycroft hadn’t said anything to him yet.

“I’ll probably be there for a year at the least,” he added. Sherlock kept his gaze directed at the outside world, but all he was seeing was John’s reflection in the window.

His stomach did an odd flip when he saw John smile—not frown, but smile. It was a comforting one too, reassuring, not sympathetic or pitiful, but…small and heartwarming—the only warmth Sherlock had felt since this ordeal had started.

“You won’t be going alone, then,” John said as he sat down. Sherlock blinked and slowly turned to face him.

“You’re not coming—,”

“Oh yes. I am. Because I’m not going to just leave my best friend after he jumped off a fucking building. Besides, you have to explain why.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. There it was, that. Anger. Confusion. But John was holding it back; he wasn’t ready to bring it up, and didn’t want to ask Sherlock questions, considering everything they needed to deal with first.

Sherlock simply nodded and then faced forward. John pulled out yesterday’s paper and continued reading whatever dull news had caught his attention. Sherlock allowed himself a couple of minutes to soak in his pride, and then he reached forward and took the cup of water. He managed to drink all of it, and then placed it back down, already worn out. He ignored John’s grin however found it strangely amusing.

*            *            *

Sherlock stared at the handle dangling in front of him. He reached forward with his left hand and grasped it. He tugged, and lifted his head up, only to collapse back against the pillow with a huff.

“It’ll take some practice,” John said beside him. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I can’t lift myself up. How is that not worrisome?”

John didn’t reply. He stood up, his back hunched. He ran a hand through his hair—clearly he was anxious about something.

“John?”

John looked at him. “I’m going to get something to eat. Is that all right?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Sure…”

John hesitated, but then left.

He was gone barely a minute before a middle-aged woman walked in, holding a small notebook and folder. She walked in and sat in John’s chair, already irritating Sherlock.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes,” she greeted cheerfully. Sherlock looked over her, and then groaned obnoxiously.

_A psychiatrist. Seriously?_

“I don’t need to talk to _someone_ ,” Sherlock stated. “You can tell my brother to—.”

“Oh I’m not here from your brother. Your partner requested I come and talk to you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows briefly, and then widened his eyes. “John? Why would he—.”

“He has some concerns.”

“What concerns?” Sherlock asked quickly. He lifted his head slightly to meet her gaze easily.

“We’ll get to that in a moment. Let’s start with a simple question, Sherlock. How are you today?”

Sherlock blinked at her. He remained quiet for a moment, thinking over reasons why John would want him to talk to a therapist. He repeated the past few weeks—the not eating was normal, he said so himself. He had been taking a lot of morphine—John didn’t think that was an addiction, did he? No, of course not, he wouldn’t request a psych evaluation for that.

It must have been before that…before everything…

Sherlock sat up suddenly, the realization dawning on him so suddenly the pain currently throbbing his muscles and bones was ignored.

_I’m a fake…this is my note. It’s what people do, don’t they?_

John thought Sherlock was suicidal—and still believes it!

Sherlock turned to the psychiatrist, who was looking at him with interest.

“John…John thinks I’m suicidal…”

Something felt odd in Sherlock’s mind, and he suddenly found himself thrashing out of the bed—or at least, moving his arms rapidly as he threw the blankets off of him and tried to sit up. His chest was tight and heavy, he couldn’t find the ability to breathe, and suddenly realized that breathing wouldn’t be so boring after all.

A swarm of staff came storming in, rough hands holding him down as he shouted John’s name. He needed to set the record straight—John needed to know the truth—.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock darted his gaze to the door and saw John staring at him with a worry. He rushed forward to his side, and took his hand.

“Sherlock breathe, just breathe…” John’s voice was soothing, and Sherlock’s muscles slowly went lax. He stared up into John’s eyes, finding a sudden calm in amidst a ravenous storm.

His senses came back to him, all at once, and he felt a wave of tiredness wash over him. He barely felt the oxygen mask being placed over his mouth as he fell asleep, losing himself in the abyss of John’s blue eyes.

*            *            *

Sherlock awoke groggily, and slowly opened his eyes. A sudden sob penetrated the silence, and he closed his eyes to focus on the sound. It was coming from the lavatory, and the person was trying to muffle the sounds.

Sherlock listened carefully, and heard the faucet turn on. The person was washing their face, and then they entered the room, their steps stiff. They exhaled heavily and sat down in John’s chair—

Oh. John was crying.

 _Why?_ Sherlock asked himself. Something in his chest tightened at the thought, and he suddenly felt queasy again. He started to open his eyes again, only to keep them closed when a rough hand took his and held it.

John let out a shaky breath and rubbed Sherlock’s hand soothingly. It actually felt nice, and Sherlock decided to pretend to be asleep for little while longer. He wanted to know why John was upset. Did he do something wrong? John never cries, at least in public, although they weren’t exactly _in public._ But John always kept his emotions stable, and to himself. When he was mad, he’d express it in a controlled way, but when he was upset, he’d keep it to himself until he repressed enough to go on with the day. Breaking down in a hospital wasn’t unheard of, but to have it happen to John was unsettling. No—it was worse. It was unacceptable. No one should upset John this much to have him cry in the washroom, trying so hard to muffle it, which meant it was most likely to hide it from someone in the room. The only person capable of doing such a thing was Sherlock.

_But what did I do?_

Sherlock recalled to the past few days again, and carefully examined each moment. He didn’t want to have a panic attack again, however he didn’t understand how that had even happened.

_Why would John be upset at him? Was he too much of a burden for John? No, John wouldn’t give up on his friends, which was what I was to him, right? We were still friends, weren’t we? John had yet to know why I jumped off the roof though. It was for him after all, and two others._

John still thought he was suicidal, which was something Sherlock needed to set the record straight right away. Was that why he was upset? There was a sudden movement by his side, and John leaned forward, pressing his head against Sherlock’s left arm. His breathing was still shaky, and then Sherlock felt a slight wetness on his forearm.

John was crying again. Sherlock swallowed tightly, resisting himself from opening his eyes and confronting John, but he predicted that wouldn’t go well. John would wipe his tears and pretend everything was fine; it probably wasn’t the best way to comfort him.

Unfortunately, before Sherlock could think of what to do, there was a new set of steps entering his room, followed by the tap of an umbrella against the cold tiles.

John shifted and wiped his face, clearly trying to hide the tears, as he faced Sherlock’s brother. Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft silently deduce the two of them, but was a second behind with his own deductions, when Mycroft spoke.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned inwardly and opened his eyes. He first looked at his brother, then at John, who was looking at him with surprise, which quickly distorted to something like embarrassment. John looked away and ran his hand through his hair. He cleared his throat and shifted his feet awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock whispered roughly.

Mycroft pulled a mild affronted face. “Just checking in.”

Sherlock stared at him, challenging him to just get on with it. Mycroft sighed, and stepped forward.

“Moriarty’s body has been taken care of. I’m sending teams across the continent to locate his network. You will be placed in a safe house after you recover; the public thinks you’re dead so hopefully no one will find out.”

“The hospital is guarded anyway.” Sherlock pointed out.

“Quite right,” Mycroft sighed. John’s eyes had widened, and gaped that Mycroft.

“Moriarty…was on the roof?”

Mycroft stared at him, then looked at Sherlock, raising his eyebrow.

“I see…”

“Mycroft—.” Sherlock started to snap.

“I’ll just leave you two…” Mycroft quickly left; John watched him go, and then turned to Sherlock, crossing is arms over the chest.

“Sher—.”

“I asked Moriarty to meet me on the roof. I had you called to Baker Street to keep you away for a bit.”

John furrowed his brows and altered his stance. “You…went up to the roof to talk to him,” he started slowly. “So…”

John pondered for a moment, and Sherlock remained silent.

John clenched his jaw and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Everything you said…about being a fake. You were lying.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

John blinked rapidly and briefly looked away.

“So…you’re not suicidal?”

Sherlock breathed out slowly. “No.”

John noticeably relaxed and looked at the ground. His breathing had deepened. Sherlock remained still, unsure what John was going to do or say.

John uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists. He took a step back and paced slightly in the spot, his head down and his brows furrowed. After about a minute, he looked at Sherlock, and then decreased the space between them. He stopped right by his bedside, and leaned forward slightly. His arms were halfway raised, his hands nearly reaching out to him.

Sherlock glanced into John’s eye and his throat tightened. John’s eyes were glistening, but no tears were falling.

“Can I—.” John broke off, and bit his lip. He looked away and leaned forward, wrapping his arms hesitantly around Sherlock’s middle. It took a moment for Sherlock to realize John was hugging him, and then leaned into it slightly, keeping his arms by his side, unsure what to do with them.

John’s breathing had become uneven, as if he was trying not to gasp or cry out. He tightened his embrace and whispered against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I thought…I thought I had done something. I thought I wasn’t good enough to keep you from jumping—.”

Sherlock froze and pushed John back. John bit his lip and lowered his gaze. He removed his hands, and started to pull away, before Sherlock took hold of his wrists, keeping him in place.

“You…actually thought that?” Sherlock asked cautiously. “Why?”

John shrugged, and weakly tugged his wrists, testing the grip.

“John?” Sherlock pried.

“I don’t know!” John snapped. He appeared to be bothered by it too, but he definitely knew more than Sherlock.

“John…” Sherlock started carefully. “It wasn’t your fault. It was my decision, and I…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He loosened his grasp, and John withdrew his hands quickly as if he had been burned.

John dropped his head and rubbed his forehead with his hands, like what he did when he had a headache. “I tried to talk you down, I tried and I failed—.”

“Stop it, John.” Sherlock interrupted fiercely. He hardened his gaze and cupped John’s check with his left hand, lifting it upwards to meet his gaze. John swallowed tightly and at first avoided his eyes, but then reluctantly meeting them. His own eyes were still glistening, and his cheeks were red.

He suddenly leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s lips against his with a hard kiss. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and kept them; neither of them moved their lips. Sherlock was so close to John’s face he could see his blond eyelashes spanning out over his closed lids, appearing soft and fluffy for some reason.

John pulled away abruptly and stared at Sherlock, his eyes widening slowly with shock and regret.

“I’m sorry I—.”

Sherlock stared at him, stunned, and subconsciously leaned back against the pillow. John nearly scrambled away and then glanced at him with hesitation, however only for a brief moment, before rushing out the door. Sherlock stared at the door, his mind suddenly blank for the first time he could remember.

It wasn’t until evening when John came back, hesitantly at first, then as normal as possible as he sat in his chair. Sherlock had been starting at the door since then, and blinked when John had coughed.

“John—.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I—I don’t know—I didn’t…” John trailed off and focused on the ground.

_Ah. It was a mistake. Obviously._

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said. John slowly raised his head and met his gaze. Seemingly satisfied with his response, John nodded stiffly and offered a small hesitant smile. Sherlock smiled back, and hoped it didn’t appear strained.

*            *            *

Two days later, and it seemed John was acting normal. He didn’t mention the kiss, however Sherlock couldn’t tell if that bothered him. It was just a kiss—nothing serious. John had been in a vulnerable and emotional state, and if the contact offered him comfort, than Sherlock was happy to give it to him.

“Sherlock?”

He looked up at John, focusing on his face.

“Did you still want to shower?”

Sherlock faintly remembered his request and nodded.

“Okay. I can help you into your chair and then you can take it from there.”

Sherlock nodded again, and then prepared to move. He removed the blankets, but then froze, spotting a thin plastic tube leading up his legs.

“The catheter…” Sherlock pointed out.

John looked at him and then went to the end of the bed. He lifted up the bag where the tube was attached to so Sherlock could see it.

“It’ll take some time getting used to, but this one is only temporary. Soon you would be able to go without one for several hours, and a nurse can teach you how to use it by yourself.”

Sherlock simply nodded. John stepped back to his side and then wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Ready?”

Sherlock looked up and nodded, and then leaned against John as he pulled him off the bed. Sherlock was still sore but was tired of laying on the scratchy piece of foam the hospital called a mattress, and wanted a decent wash.

John wrapped an arm around his waist and held him up. Sherlock tried to shuffle his feet, but couldn’t, and bit his lip to keep himself from bursting with frustration. He ignored the offered walker, and leaned into John for support. John gently pulled him forward into the wheelchair, and then sat him down. He wheeled him into the shower room and helped him into the shower chair. He pushed the chair out and then hesitated by the curtain.

“Do you need any help?”

Sherlock huffed. “I think I can wash my own body.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat, and then closed the curtain. “Shout if you need anything.”

Sherlock showered, however slowly, as his muscles were still sore from the lack of movement. As he turned the shower off, he realized that all he had was a towel.

Sighing, he dried himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist the best he could, and then reached for the curtain, pulling it open. The wheelchair wasn’t far, so Sherlock took hold of the railing and stood without a second thought.

He stumbled and lost his grip, and then fell hard onto his side. He grunted, and quickly tried to sit up, but John was already at his side, helping him up.

“Here, just, sit and I’ll bring the chair—,”

“I don’t need help.”

“Yes, you do.” John’s tone wasn’t of impatience, but blunt yet still trying to be comforting. He lifted Sherlock onto the shower chair, and then brought the wheelchair closer. He helped him in and then wheeled him back into the room.

“Mycroft had some clothes brought here, so you don’t have to wear just the hospital gown. I can help you into some pajamas, but you can’t wear any pants yet—it’s just easier to—.”

Sherlock wasn’t listening anymore, as his reflection in the mirror that was meant for shaving stared at him. He was paler, thinner, and half of his body was covered with fading bruises.

John stopped speaking when he caught sight of Sherlock. He stepped forward and gave his good shoulder a gentle squeeze. “The bruising will go away soon.”

Sherlock redirected his gaze downward, and rubbed his shoulder he had fallen on. It was the one he had injured in the fall, and still felt strained whenever he moved it a certain way. Whatever John saw on his face must have stopped him from finishing what he had been saying, and he silently helped him into clean pajamas and a new hospital gown.

He silently wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him into the bed. Sherlock shifted upwards, dragging his useless limbs and resting against the pillow, avoiding John’s concerned gaze.

“I’ll call the nurse for some food. You should try to eat something,” John whispered.

Sherlock just hummed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the tap of the umbrella entering his room.

John shuffled his feet. “He’s not up for talking,” he said to the newcomer.

“I’ll be quick,” Mycroft said.

John sighed, but allowed him to continue. Sherlock reopened his eyes and fixated them on his brother, and fortunately all he found was serious concern, nothing of brotherly compassion.

“It’s been a little more than two weeks since your incident. I’ll be having you transferred to a safe house.”

“Why a safe house?” John asked.

“For precautionary reasons.”

John stared him down, demanding silently for a real answer.

“Tell him Mycroft. I haven’t gotten the chance to explain it all,” Sherlock said with a strained whisper.

“You can explain your reasons yourself Sherlock, but, Dr. Watson, Moriarty was with Sherlock on the roof.”

John nodded stiffly. “I know that. He’s dead.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m afraid Sherlock should be the one to explain everything else. I’m only here for a short time.”

“Always something on your plate,” John scoffed. “You can’t even stay for five minutes. Your brother is in the hospital—!”

“John.”

John bit his tongue and looked at Sherlock. He nodded once, and then remained quiet.

“As I was saying,” Mycroft continued. “You’ll be transferred in a few days. If you want they can have you sleep through it, as it is quite far. As for you John, you’ll be watched by a team everyday until the situation is dealt with—.”

“I’m going with Sherlock.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “You most certainly are not—.”

John huffed. “I’m not staying behind and sit around until Sherlock comes back. He said it could be at least year. I’m going with him.”

John stood his ground, and Mycroft looked at him from head to toe before nodding his head once.

“Fine. I’ll have some necessities arranged. I’ll be in touch in a few days.”

Mycroft nodded to the both of them, and then left. John looked at his feet, shuffling them.

“You will tell me, won’t you?” John murmured. Sherlock breathed in softly.

“I will.”

*            *            *

Four days later, they were sent to the safe house. John wanted to stay longer at the hospital, because Sherlock still had difficulty in sitting up on his own, but Mycroft was insistent.

John carefully lifted Sherlock from his seat of the car and into the wheelchair he had brought out from the back of the van. They were all the way at the Isle of Wight, with grasslands spreading in one direction, and then a small patch of thin trees in another. The coastline peaked clearly through the branches, and the smell of salt water itched at Sherlock’s throat.

John wheeled Sherlock down the paved pathway leading to the house. The building was fairly big on the outside, with three windows across the upper floor, and a larger one on the lower floor, closed off by maroon curtains. There were two front doors as the entrance, and then a blank wall beside it with flowerless vines climbing up to the rectangle roof. On the right side of the house, there was a small garden house, with more flowerless plants, which John found odd, as it was the middle of summer.

He paused in front of the doors, and unlocked it. He wheeled Sherlock inside, and then began opening the curtains, which turned out to be in the kitchen, with a small dining table in the center.

“You might want to close those. We don’t know yet if we’re being watched.”

John stopped what he was doing and left them half open. “I thought this was a safe house.”

“It is.”

John turned on a couple of the lights, noticing how well furnished the place was, and clearly had been cleaned recently.

“I’ll get our bags. You all right—.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

John retrieved their bags as Sherlock watched from the window. From what he could tell, the bedrooms were upstairs, and realized with an unsettling stomach flip that this house must have been chosen last minute.

He wheeled himself across the room and into a larger one. There were stairs to his left, and a small desk in the corner near the backdoor, which led to a porch. A small gap between the trees lined perfectly with the outside pathway, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of the glittering cold water swaying in the distance.

The other side of the room was furnished with a large leather sofa, a fireplace, and an armchair right beside it, with various side tables. The walls were bare apart from a sea blue paint that Sherlock found depressing.

He wheeled to the sofa, and, after countless times of practice, lifted himself up and seated himself as comfortable as he could get. John’s footsteps echoed against the drafty walls, and he paused by the stairs.

“I’ll get out things sorted and then we can have some dinner. Maybe there’s a shop—.”

“The fridge is already packed,” Sherlock informed. “There will be food deliveries by a different person about once a week or so.”

“Oh. Okay then.” John began heading upstairs with their bags, when Sherlock continued.

“I can keep my bag here. There’s no point in putting it up there.”

John turned around and stared at him. “Your bed’s upstairs.”

“And how do you suppose I get up there?” Sherlock scorned. “Crawl?”

John shifted until he was completely facing him. “You’re not sleeping on that couch, you’ll strain whatever muscles you do have.” His tone was harsh, but gently honest at the same time. “You’ll sleep in a proper bed. If I have to carry you every night and morning, than I will. Besides, if you want me to call Mycroft to rearrange our situation, I will.”

He headed upstairs and disappeared from sight. Sherlock watched him go and stared at the place he was in for several minutes in awe, and then looked away as John reappeared.

“Right, then. Dinner?”

*            *            *

Sherlock looked at his plate, but didn’t take a bite. John was staring at him, his own plate clean.

“Still not hungry,” John stated more than asked.

Sherlock shrugged. He had eaten a little at the hospital, and they reluctantly let him go despite his lacking appetite.

“Not even a bite?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John sighed and then cleaned up their dinner, putting Sherlock’s in a container and storing it in the fridge. After he was done, he hovered by Sherlock, hesitation in his posture.

“Are you ready to tell—.”

“I’m going to bed.” Sherlock wheeled away from John, but then stopped abruptly in front of the stairs. Something clenched in his chest, but he ignored it and casted his gaze to the ground as John stepped closer to him.

“There’s another chair up stairs, so all I have to do is carry you. We can leave this one here.” John reached forward and placed his arm on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock refused to look at him, but reached up and wrapped his arms around John’s neck. John wrapped his arm around his waist, and his other arm underneath his knees. He lifted him up, stabilized his footing, and then carried Sherlock up the stairs.

There were only ten steps, and Sherlock’s bedroom was the room closest to the stairs, the door already opened. John walked in and gently placed him down until he was sitting on the bed. He went back to retrieve the second chair, which was the same type as the one downstairs, with handles for pushing and large wheels. The two they had weren’t ideal for Sherlock in his state, but they hadn’t been able to purchase a specific one just yet, so they used the ones from the hospital. He placed the chair in close reach from Sherlock’s bed, and then stepped back.

“Do you need help—?”

“I can manage.”

“All right. Tomorrow morning we can wash up.”

Sherlock glanced up, catching a sudden blush rising on John’s cheek.

“I mean, you. I can help you when you’re ready.” He headed for the door, and then paused.

“Good night Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, and watched as John closed the door, keeping it parted open.

Sherlock dressed in fresh pajamas, since he was wearing the same ones since yesterday. The only light on was the one on his bedside table, and he flicked it off before lying down.

He didn’t fall asleep right away, and heard footsteps hovering outside his door more than once. He heard them again, and the sound of John’s breathing was louder as he peeked through the door, just as Sherlock fell asleep.

*            *            *

It was only there for four and a half seconds. Sherlock first noticed it in the middle of the night, but ignored it as simply a phantom sense rather than anything else.

*            *            *

Sherlock watched John as he prepared them breakfast. By the way John was slightly stiffer and had a very small tremor in his hand when _not_ using it suggested he had been awake through the entire night. He wasn’t having trouble sleeping; Sherlock knew that since he had managed to sleep at the hospital. So the reason as to why John would purposely stay up and resist sleep was beyond him.

“Eat your toast,” John said, breaking Sherlock out of his thoughts.

Sherlock managed to eat one of the slices, and drink half of his juice before wheeling himself away from the table and into the sitting room. There were plenty of books and even a television, but with only a video player.

Sherlock sighed with boredom, longing for his violin. John came up behind him, resting his hands on his hips briefly.

“We can go out for some fresh air if you would like. I saw some clear pathways going along the beach from my window.”

“I just got washed,” Sherlock reminded him, but remained quiet on not wanting to get sticky with salty air. Besides, it hadn’t gone very smoothly. Sherlock had woken up to John finishing his own shower, and as he was getting dressed, Sherlock had entered the bathroom and attempted to wash himself.

He had only managed to turn on the water and undress before he had realized there wasn’t a chair in the tub. Not wanting to call for John, he had lifted himself out of the chair and sat on the edge of the tub. He would have been fine hadn’t water gotten all over the floor and when he reached for his chair, it wheeled out of grasp and he fell onto his side.

John had barged it, and after accessing the situation, quietly helped him back up, fortunately not saying a word. However Sherlock was fuming at himself and beyond embarrassed that he had shut himself in his room for a few hours after, ignoring John’s nonsense talk as he tried to comfort him from the other side of the door. Then his stomach growled for the umpteenth time, and he silently entered the hallway to find John still there, and was carried down the stairs, both of them not saying a word.

“Sherlock?” John said in the present.

“Mhm?”

“What do you want to do today?”

Sherlock remained silent. He wheeled to the sofa and lifted himself into it. He lay down and rested his hands under his chin, wanting to just think. John didn’t protest, and sat down in the armchair across from him. He opened up the morning newspaper and started to read, oblivious to Sherlock battling his desire to do anything but sit still. But he couldn’t.

*            *            *

Two days later, there was a knock on the door. John looked up from book he was reading, and looked at Sherlock, who was outstretched on the sofa.

“Expecting anyone?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

John stood up slowly and reached for his gun, which he had Mycroft pack with his clothes (and kept it by the armchair during the day). He cautiously approached the door and looked through the peephole. His back relaxed slightly, and then he opened the door to a middle aged man holding a brown leather bag.

“Can I help you?” John asked.

“I’m Dr. Dmitri. The man with the umbrella sent me,” the man informed. John creased his eyebrows for a moment, slowly coming to the likely conclusion that he was talking about Mycroft.

“Right. Are you here for Sherlock?”

“I am. I’m here to check his injuries and get him started with rehabilitation.”

“Right, of course. Come in.”

The man walked in and headed to the sitting room as John closed the door. Sherlock eyed him once and then looked away.

“I don’t need _rehab_ ,” he said with disgust.

“Your brother said I’m only here to check your progress. I’ll be here every few days or so. And I’ll show you some exercises to keep you fit. Your partner can watch and then he can help you with them in the future.”

John nodded and stood where he was, clenching his fists but not saying a word. Sherlock sighed.

For the next hour, Dmitri examined Sherlock’s injuries, noting his observations in his notebook and muttering to himself. John watched from afar, clearly affronted in Sherlock’s eyes that Mycroft didn’t trust him to do the checkup and rehabilitation. Sherlock would have preferred it, so going to the trouble of assigning another doctor was annoying, yet Mycroft would claim he had his best interests in his brother’s recovery and it wasn’t anything personal towards John.

But Sherlock refused to see it that way.

John left and prepared tea in the kitchen, silently offering privacy to Sherlock as his back was examined. Dmitri was experienced and gentle, but had cold hands even through the gloves.

“Can you feel here?” He asked as he pressed in the middle of Sherlock’s back.

“Yes.”

The man lowered his hand to the point between spine and tailbone. “Here?”

“It’s…” Sherlock trailed off, a spark of tingles trailing down from that direct spot. “No, I can’t,” he told the doctor, and himself. He refused to get his hopes up for familiar imaginations.

“All right then. That’s it’s for today. You’re very lucky to have this much sensory. I’ll be back before the weekend.”

Dmitri helped Sherlock sit up against the pillow that was resting on the armrest, and then gathered his things. He quickly left, and then started talking to John. Sherlock overheard various exercises and poses, and then a shuffle of papers clearly diagrams of such things. John’s voice rose slightly, sending an odd shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

“We’re not a couple…”

“Oh, apologies. Well…just keep it. If he ever wants to date, this will be useful.” Dmitri muttered goodbye to John, then left. John entered the sitting room, carrying two cups of tea.

“Everything all right?” Sherlock asked after noticing John’s posture stiff.

“Fine.” John handed him his cup and then sat in the armchair.

“He’s not…” John trailed off.

“Who Mycroft’s looking for?” Sherlock offered.

“Yeah.”

“No. He’s not. He’s just a boring doctor from the town nearby. He has two cats, although he’s allergic but won’t admit it. He’s happily married, no children. He and his wife can barely take care of the cats, the scratches all over his hands clearly telling so. He’s shorter than average, has no coordination skills so would be a poor fighter…”

Sherlock was bursting now, and he knew what was coming before he could slow down.

“The concern that you would think he’d be part of Moriarty’s network just proves that you’re an useless idiot, like everyone else. Though I might add, his life sure seems a much better life sentence than this, and I’d be more than thrilled to a life here with cats in this tedious town and actually _do_ something if I wasn’t a damn cripple!” Sherlock bellowed the last worst, snapping it with venom as he threw his cup against the wall, shattering it and spraying tea everywhere.

Sherlock glared at John, breathing in deeply as silence encased the room. John was still sitting in his chair, meeting Sherlock’s eyes steadily. He blinked and then exhaled.

“If he doesn’t have good coordination skills, then I don’t think he should help you with your rehabilitation,” John said calmly. His voice was shaking just the tiniest bit, but he didn’t look away or snap. Sherlock blinked at him, and relaxed his posture against the pillow.

He slowly looked away from John and up at the ceiling. He then turned onto his side, pulling his legs to do the same, and directed his gaze to the couch, his back facing John.

He heard John sigh but remained seated, and focused on his blogger’s breathing for several minutes as it calmed him down into a light sleep.

By the time he woke up from his doze, it was dark outside, and the sound of dishes echoed from the kitchen.

John entered the room just as Sherlock finished sitting up. He looked at him no different than he did before Sherlock had snapped, which both relived and unsettled him.

“I suppose you’re not hungry.” Sherlock shook his head, agreeing.

“Well then, I think I’ll be going to bed. I can carry you up, but you don’t have to go to sleep right away.”

Sherlock nodded, and John stepped forward. He picked Sherlock up, bridal style, and carried him up the ten steps, grunting slightly along the way.

He set Sherlock down on the edge of the bed, and then retrieved his upstairs wheelchair and set it beside him to be in close reach. He pulled out Sherlock’s pajamas from a drawer and set in on the bed.

“If you need anything, just call my name.” He turned around and headed out the door.

“John?”

He repapered in the doorway, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked down.

“I…thank you,” he said hesitantly. He glanced up and saw a small grin forming on John’s face.

“You’re welcome Sherlock. Good night.”

He left, parting the door again, and turning off the hall lights. Sherlock dressed for bed and lay down and stared at the ceiling. He stayed awake for sometime, thinking, until he glanced at the clock and realized it was well past midnight.

He settled down, urging himself to sleep, when he heard footsteps in the hallway. The door creaked open and the shadow of John emerged. He stayed still for several seconds before leaving, and as Sherlock fell asleep, he realized he could still hear John’s breathing from the hallway.

*            *            *

The next day was turning out to follow the routine of yesterday. Sherlock was currently laying on the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him as he dwelled in his boredom.

John entered the room from the back porch. “Let’s go to the beach.”

Sherlock blinked up at him, startled. How on earth was he supposed to do that? The wheels of his chair wouldn’t move against the sand, and it’d just be pointless to even try.

Sherlock looked at John like he was an idiot. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

John was relaxed, and oblivious (or ignoring it) to the accusatory tone.

“The pathway is clear enough. Then I can carry you into the water for a small swim. I’m sure it’ll work.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked, his tone changing to that of a whiny child.

“Because you’ve been indoors for nearly three weeks. You need fresh air and sunlight. It’s a warm day out, so we’re going. I’ll find some kind of bottoms you could wear.” John headed upstairs, and came back quickly, already changed into a pair of old shorts, and holding another in his hand.

“There were some old clothes in the dresser. I washed them yesterday, so they’re clean.”

“I’m not wearing some stranger’s clothes.”

“I’ll help you into them.” John was very insistent than usual, and nearly forced Sherlock into a sitting position. Sherlock pouted, but put the shorts on, since he couldn’t exactly run off.

John helped him in his chair, and they headed out the back. The path that led to the beach was indeed smooth, and they reached the edge of the beach quickly. John had brought a bag and pulled two towels out and laid them beside the sand.

Sherlock sighed, the salty air stinging his eyes and the sun making him feel hot and sticky already.

“I have an idea…” John said. He removed his shirt and shoes and kneeled beside Sherlock. Sherlock eyed the scar on John’s shoulder. It was slightly raised skin, stretching outwards like a small flower over the span of his shoulder. It was pale but not sickly so, simply it was just a scar—a mark from the past.

“I’ll carry you into the water. I’m sure I can hold you on my back in there, if you want.”

“What’s the point?”

“There’s isn’t one. Come on.” John turned around and reached behind him for Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock hesitated, and then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John’s neck. John lifted him into a piggyback and easily walked towards the shore.

Sherlock was above his head, and could see everything from a higher height. The view was wider and made the setting around him larger than it was when he was sitting. He held onto John as they walked into the tide. John inhaled sharply from the contrasting temperatures, but continued to wade in.

Once he was treading water, they both relaxed. The water was cold, but not unbearable. John stayed afloat without much difficulty, but flinched slightly and attempted to loosen his left shoulder.

“Your shoulder’s bothering you,” Sherlock stated.

“It’s just the cold. I can handle it.”

“What is the point of this?”

“There isn’t one,” John said again.

“There has to be,” Sherlock insisted.

John didn’t respond, and Sherlock couldn’t see his face.

“John.”

John sighed. “I don’t like to…talk about certain things—personal things. But when I first came back from Afghanistan, I felt—well I was crippled, in some way or another. I couldn’t get a job—I didn’t try very hard because I had this set notion in my head that, looking back now, I saw myself as that, as a cripple. And I assumed that that was what everyone saw me as. It wasn’t just the nightmares and dodgy leg, but the mentality that kept me back. I was bitter about myself, therefore about everything else. It can be paralyzing, not just in a physical sense, but in a mental one as well. It kept me back, and I’d hate to see it happen to you.”

John finished, and kept his gaze on the horizon. Sherlock thought this through, and tightened his arms around John’s chest, pressing his chest against John’s back. John’s words had brought something in him to light. In all the crimes he had solved, sentiment was the usual motive—romantic love specifically, was always a vicious motivator to do unimaginative acts. What he did on the rooftop must have been motivated by something of that similar sense. He had only assumed he needed to jump to protect John; because John (and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too) was the one true friend he had ever known. But here, in the water, it must be something more, something to the liking of love.

“Sherlock?”

“Mhm?”

“You okay back there?”

“Oh, yes. I am.”

*            *            *

Sherlock spent the next two days going over everything that had happened since his fall.

For one thing, there was the kiss at the hospital. Was it a repressed desire of John’s, or was it just simply nothing?

Ever since they arrived at the safe house, John was acting strange. For one thing, he was on a continuous cycle of having Sherlock be active, and it was obviously getting to him. Sherlock knew he wasn’t sleeping enough, and most likely was having trouble to do so in the first place. But Sherlock couldn’t bring it up, and hoped John would deal with it on his own. He usually did, didn’t he?

It was morning, and Sherlock woke up to a quiet hallway. Usually, John awoke before Sherlock, and had even been the one to wake Sherlock up when he had been asleep for too long.

Sherlock sat up and lifted himself into his chair before leaving to go to the bathroom. Upon entering the hallway, he stopped in his tracks to find John slouched over by Sherlock’s door, a book opened in his lap and his head lolling to the side. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing slow and deeply, completely asleep on the floor.

“John?”

John flinched awake and glanced up to Sherlock. Taking in his appearance, he quickly stood up and straightened himself out, albeit his yesterday clothes remained wrinkled.

“Sherlock. Do you need anything?”

“Why were you sleeping on the floor?”

“I wasn’t, I was just…waiting until you got up. Breakfast?”

“Um—”

“I’ll get it started, and then come back up to take you down stairs.” Before Sherlock could respond, John headed to the kitchen.

By the time John positioned Sherlock in his chair and wheeled him to the table, the toast was cooked and juice had already been poured. John busied himself at the stove, quickly frying some eggs and putting them on a plate. His hand trembled with the spatula, but he didn’t notice Sherlock watching it, and set the plate down in front of him.

“Right then. What do you want to do today?” John asked, like he nearly always did. If they weren’t doing exercises, they would usually spend the day lounging around. They hadn’t returned to the beach, as the days were growing colder as each one past, slowly becoming autumn.

Sherlock reached for a fork with one hand and the daily paper with the other. He raised it up to cover his face, and then said, “I think you should catch up on some sleep. I’ll be fine for a few hours.”

It took John a few moments to respond, and when he did, his voice was distant. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Or every other night,” Sherlock mumbled. John clearly heard him, and sighed with a slight annoyance in his breath.

“Just eat your toast.”

“You’re not eating?”

“I already did.”

Whenever John had eaten, it must have been before he fell asleep on the floor, which meant he had been up earlier than Sherlock originally thought—probably never even bothered to try to sleep, as he was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

For the rest of the morning, Sherlock laid on the sofa, switching from going through his mind palace to observing John, who was spending his time in the kitchen.

There was a sudden thud coming from the kitchen, startling Sherlock from his thoughts. He sat up and looked towards it, but couldn’t see or hear anything.

“John?”

There was no answer, and so he lifted himself into his chair, and then wheeled to the room. John was on his side on the floor, his head resting on his right arm, which was stretched out above his head. Sherlock wheeled closer, and saw his eyes were closed, and there was a small knife in his other hand.

Starting to panic, Sherlock crept closer until he was right beside him. John’s right arm sleeve was stained red, which looked alarmingly like blood.

“John!” Sherlock raised his voice, hoping to arouse John, but the man didn’t stir. Sherlock bit his lip and looked around, trying to think of what he could do. He couldn’t carry the man to the sofa, nor move him at all.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, suddenly frustrated at his uselessness, and then stretched his legs outward with his hands. He applied the brakes of the chair to keep it from moving, and then scooted to the edge of the seat. He lowered himself to the floor, and using his hands, dragged himself to John’s side to gently shake John’s back.

“John?”

John stirred slightly, and mumbled incoherently. His face scrunched up and he squinted his eyes open up at Sherlock.

“Sher…” John slurred and blinked heavily. He focused his vision and looked around, looking from his bleeding arm to the knife back to Sherlock. His eyes widened as he woke up fully, and stood up swiftly.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John asked in alarm.

Sherlock blinked up at him. “I’m fine John—.”

John lifted him up into his chair gently, and then checked his head for something, as if he was injured.

“Did you fall or something—.” John started, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his head.

“ _I’m_ fine, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “You’re the one who fell.”

John met his eyes, and Sherlock inhaled sharply. John’s eyes were red rimmed and his face was grey and puffy; he had stubble along his jaw, and a small prick on his cheek, bleeding slightly.

“John, I really think you should sleep for a—.”

John pulled his wrists away and walked past Sherlock. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Really, I don’t know what’s been getting into me…”

“You’re sleep deprived, John.” Sherlock followed him to the sitting room. John stopped in his tracks and placed his hands on his hips, and then hung his head.

Sherlock took his chance and continued. “You haven’t been sleeping well, if at all. I hear you walking in the hallway in the middle of the night; you hands are both trembling, and you blink heavily whenever you sit down. I’m already useless as it is, the both of us can’t be.”

John inhaled deeply. “And sleeping will help, hm? I have to take care of you. I can’t just take time for myself—.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Sherlock huffed aggravated. “I’ll be fine for a few hours on my own. You don’t have to keep watching over me to make sure I won’t hurt myself.”

But you did!” John spun around, his face suddenly fuming. “I left you and you nearly died!”

Sherlock blinked at him. His breathed in deeply, choosing his words carefully. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant yet soft. “It wasn’t about that, John. I had planed it before you left.”

John laughed humorlessly. “Of course you did. You always do things without telling me, always. You run off somewhere, and by the end of the day, I’m right there beside you. I’m taken for granted, and you keep doing it.”

“I didn’t ask you too—.”

“You didn’t need to!”

John clenched his mouth shut; Sherlock stared at him, repeating what he had just said.

_You didn’t need to ask._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked without thinking.

John sighed and turned around. “It doesn’t matter.” He headed towards the backdoor, calling over his shoulder as he did.

“I’m going to the garden shed, if you need anything.”

John disappeared from sight, and he made an appearance nearly every twenty minutes. He pretended to get a glass of water, and then a snack, but Sherlock knew he was checking on him, making sure he was all right, even though he was literally next-door.

Later in the afternoon, John came back in, his face gleaming with sweat and his hair matted to his face.

He turned to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair by the sofa.

“I’m going to take a quick shower. Just,” he hesitated. “Shout if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded as John headed up the stairs, and once he heard the shower turn on, he wheeled to the foot of the stairs to keep an ear out.

Nearly twenty minutes later, he heard a loud thud coming from the bathroom. He knew it was going to happen, and instantly wished he had confronted John about it beforehand. He raised his head and shouted John’s name, but not expecting an answer, and didn’t receive one.

Fuming, Sherlock continued shouting John’s name for another ten minutes, his frustration and his resentment towards his injury rising.

“John!” Sherlock bellowed again as he paced the room in his chair, going in odd circles at the foot of the stairs.

Quick steps thundered down the stairs, and Sherlock wheeled himself closer and glared at John as he made his way down.

“What is it, Sherlock? You all right?”

“You’re an idiot, John.”

John gaped at him, and swayed on his feet. Sherlock took in his appearance, his deductions flying out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“You’re dressed in a undershirt and jeans, the whole right side soaking wet, no doubt you fell on that side, onto the bathroom floor which had collected water from your shower. Your hair is still dripping, despite being out of the shower for nearly half an hour; you were lying on the floor, clearly having passed out. You call yourself a doctor, but you can’t even diagnosis yourself with sleep deprivation, and are too proud to admit it. I had to wait here unable to check you because I’m a waste of space—a pathetic cripple, and the both of us can’t be, so why don’t you just leave already, and save us the trouble!”

Sherlock stared at John, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched. John stared back at him, his face battling a series of emotions going from shock to affront to distasteful sympathy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock spat as he spun around and wheeled quickly to the backdoor. He wheeled down the ramp John had hastily made a few days ago, and wheeled down the path. He could hear John following him, his steps quick to keep up with him yet hesitant at the same time. He had yet to say something.

Sherlock wheeled himself as fast as possible, and he ignored how the path was becoming uneven, the sudden tightness in his throat and the annoying stinging in his eyes. He heard John’s steps falter behind him, and as he risked a glance behind him, his view turned to its side.

It took a moment to process what was happening, but as John’s eyes widened with horror, and Sherlock’s view started spinning, did he realized he must have trailed off the path and tumbled down some sort of ravine.

Sherlock’s tumble came to a halt, and he lay still on his side, his arms and face already feeling irritated with scrapes. John’s voice entered his ears, and he opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them.

“Sherlock?”

John entered his vision, and Sherlock bit his tongue to keep him from whimpering. John cupped his jaw and tilted his face upwards as he rubbed away the dirt and grass.

Sherlock glanced around and spotted his chair, which was on its side, once of the handles missing and a wheel bent. John followed his gaze and noticing the chair, and rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly.

“We have another chair, so it’ll be fine.”

Sherlock wiped his face and sniffled; he attempted to sit up, and John wrapped his arm around his back to keep him upright. Something in him must have snapped, because before he could bit his lip or even his tongue, tears were leaking down his cheeks. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep himself silent, and leaned into John’s embrace. John held him closer, and muttered incoherently as he rested his hand on Sherlock’s neck, rubbing soothing circles.

Sherlock clutched at John’s shirt as he body shuddered, and he lost track of time. By the time John picked him up and carried him back to the house, the sun was setting, radiating the sky with golden orange light surrounding them.

John carried him all the way upstairs, where he set him down in his chair and wheeled him to the bathroom. He silently cleaned him up, wiping away the little blood from his cheeks and arms. Once he finished, it was dark out, and Sherlock made no indication he wanted to eat.

John didn’t ask, and took him to his bedroom, and helped him into clean pajamas. After he was settled in, John headed to the door, but then Sherlock spoke up.

“Stay.”

John turned towards him, and looked at him gently.

“I’m not—.”

“John…” Sherlock inhaled deeply. How was he supposed to tell John he was worried about him? It was beyond his expertise, and no matter how he said it; he’d sound unlike himself. Perhaps he should give it a try?

“I’m…asking you, because I’m…” He glanced up and quickly looked away. “Concerned about you.”

John noticeable relaxed, and walked closer. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the floor. “I’m fine—.”

“No. You’re not. Stay.” Sherlock looked at him, hoping he didn’t have to beg for long. John however, was being arrogant.

“I’ll just be—.”

“John.” Sherlock hardened his voice slightly. “Please.”

John relaxed and then, after a moment of hesitation, nodded. “Can I at least change?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded. John hurried out of the room, and quickly returned, dressed in fresh pajamas. He wandered to the other side of the bed, and hesitantly got under the blankets, remaining a fair distance from Sherlock.

He lay on his back, and looked up at the ceiling. Sherlock lay back, and turned his head, looking at him.

“How am I supposed to sleep with you watching me?” John asked after a moment.

“You’ll fall asleep no matter what. You’re on the verge right now.”

“No I’m not,” John mumbled. Sherlock remained silent and watched John’s face slowly relax. John tried to fight it off, but was having trouble keeping his eyes open. When it was proving too much difficulty, and it was obvious John was too tired to try to argue, he sighed with defeat, and turned his head towards Sherlock.

“Sometimes, I hate it when you’re right.”

“I know. Just go to sleep, John.”

John sighed. “Fine.”

*            *            *

Early the next morning, Sherlock woke up to the rain splattering hard against the window. He shifted and turned to face John, and noticed he was still sound asleep.

Sherlock sat up and leaned against the headboard. It wasn’t until just before noon, when John woke up, and was still rather drowsy, but his complexion and alertness had obviously improved.

He sat up and looked at Sherlock hesitantly.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Sherlock nodded once, and then started to get into his chair. He showered first, and then let John quickly wash up, before going downstairs for lunch.

Sherlock bathed in John’s fresher attitude, but didn’t say anything, and instead, earned a warm smile from the man opposite the table.

*            *            *

A few days later, John had come up with another _domestic_ activity to pass the time. After breakfast, he had taken Sherlock to the garden house. It had been cleaned up at some point, and was now cleaner, with room to walk around without getting tangled up with overgrown vines and weeds.

“I’ve, er, cleaned it up whenever I couldn’t sleep. It passed the time,” John said as he wheeled Sherlock to some of the pots. The windows had been filthy, and were now clean enough to look through and see the world outside.

“Planting a garden, how wonderful,” Sherlock sneered lightly.

John glared at him softly. “It’ll look nice once the flowers bloom. If they bloom that is. Some were already planted and growing, and I found some packets of seeds underneath the table. I thought we could plant them together, if you like? Or you could just watch…” John looked at Sherlock, his posture withdrawn with hesitation. He clearly was bored to do something, and at least this was that something, however dull it would likely turn out to be.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Give me a pot.”

John bit his lip to hid a smirk, but failing, as he handed Sherlock a pot and a packet of seeds.

“Honeysuckle,” John said. “I think that is what’s climbing up the wall in the front.

“ _Lonicera_ , the scientific term. Usually a springtime plant, but some sorts can survive into the autumn,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. He missed John’s grin, as he fiddled with the packet.

“There are some others, like Poinsettia seeds. I’ve always liked those…”

“The Christmas Star, or scientifically the _Euphorbia pulcherrima._ Originating from Mexico, it’s associated with Christianity and represents cheer and wishes, but was originally part of Aztec culture and associated with purity and sacrifices.”

“Amazing,” John breathed. “There are also some Iris seeds. I’ve heard they’re a good omen to good news or something like that…”

“May not bloom this time of year, but you can try planting them. Iris are in fact symbols of good news, but usually associated with the rainbow, a trail to good fortune.”

John’s smile widened. “Since when did you know all these botanical facts?”

Sherlock shrugged and kept his gaze downward. “My mother likes to garden.”

John chuckled. “Well, if there’s ever a case where a criminal leaves a floral signature, you’d know the meaning right away

Sherlock froze and looked up at John, who was oblivious and looking at another packet of seeds. He shook himself out of surprise, and reminded himself the obvious.

_Of course John expected you to go on cases again. That’s the only reason he’s still here. He wants you to get better so you can still provide him with the thrill of the chase. It’s for him—he’s expecting that._

Something clenched uncomfortably in Sherlock’s chest, and without a word, he wheeled out of the shed. He ignored John’s startled noise, and his persistent questions, and headed to the stairs.

He stopped in his tracks, realizing with a dread he couldn’t sulk in private. He heard John’s steps close behind him, and sat stiff in his chair, holding on his wheels tightly.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was hesitant, and clearly surprised by Sherlock sudden movement.

Sherlock swallowed tightly, and reached for the railing, as if he was going to stand up and walk up the stairs.

John shuffled his feet, unsure what Sherlock was planning on doing. After several seconds of tension, Sherlock relaxed slightly and removed his hand.

“I think I’ve had enough of fresh air today.”

John cleared his throat. “All right,” he murmured. “I can make us some lunch if you want.”

Sherlock nodded and then wheeled himself to the table. As he watched John prepare their meal, he began to ponder on how he truly felt for the man, and how it could change everything forever.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three months. That was how long it’s been since his fall. Six weeks spent in the hospital before being rushed to the safe house. Sherlock had never been this bored and useless in his entire life, which John dismissed as him being overly dramatic. John tried to keep him busy, helping him with his exercises and even playing board games with him. It had worked, but only for a short while. He was on the sofa, his usual spot during the day, with his head closest to the fireplace and his feet on the other end, where the door was.

Dmitri showed up every now and then, his visits growing farther apart, probably because he was nearly completely healed as short term injuries go.

Sherlock had time to go over his newly realized feelings for John. He looked over all the evidence and it was clear, but impossible to be reciprocated. He was already convinced John would only want to remain his friend. Going into a romantic relationship with a cripple—well, disabled, as John had him practice using the term, was just insane for a man like John. In a few years, he’d meet an average woman and get married, probably start a family soon after. Sherlock didn’t want to hold John back, and to burden him not only with his disadvantage, but with his feelings as well. So he made an instant decision that he was not going to tell John. But _dealing_ with his feelings was another story.

There was a knock on the door, and then John’s voice greeting the visitor. The tap of the umbrella provoked a groan from Sherlock’s throat, and he didn’t bother turning his head to greet his brother.

“Isolation suiting you well?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s going fine,” John answered for him.

“Good. That’s good.” Mycroft turned to John. “Sleeping well?”

John shuffled his feet but kept his gaze. “Fine.”

“Good. Now, I have some things to discuss with my brother.”

John looked at Sherlock, who shrugged. Getting the hint, he headed outside the backdoor. “I’ll go for a walk then.”

Once he was out of sight, Mycroft seated in John’s chair and crossed his legs.

Sherlock sat up steadily and leaned against the armrest. “Go on and get it out. That’s the reason you came here, after all. You’re not here just to check in.”

Mycroft smirked. “We’ve managed to locate most of the network. I have teams set in place, some individuals here and there, who will be working to dismantle it.”

“Time range?”

“Six months at the least. The network appears to think you died from your fall, but they may try to locate John—.”

“So we have to stay here then. Until it’s all over.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock sighed. “Right, well, off you go then.”

Mycroft didn’t move. “You haven’t told him.”

Sherlock glanced at him then looked away. “No.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows. “And you’re making that decision for him.”

“He hasn’t asked in a few weeks.”

“Perhaps he’s giving you time.”

“He doesn’t need to know why I jumped. He knows it has to do with Moriarty. Everything else won’t make a difference.”

Mycroft smirked. “Will it?”

Sherlock looked at him, realization dawning. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m sure you have it all figured out.”

Sherlock glared at his brother and looked away. “It won’t change anything. Just because I did it for him doesn’t mean anything.”

“If you keep telling yourself that, then you’ll start blaming him.”

Sherlock snapped his gaze to his brother. “Blame? You blame John?”

Mycroft looked affronted, yet still calm. “I’m not blaming anyone. But you did jump, for him.”

It wasn’t a question. Sherlock widened his eyes. “Yes but there was a chance of failure and it did. It’s not John’s fault.”

“So you don’t resent him?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “I don’t mean to offend, Sherlock.” He paused. “I best be going.”

He stood up and gathered his things, but then paused before leaving. “Take care of yourself Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother, and nodded slightly. Mycroft headed out the room, but then stopped again, directing his eyes to the backdoor. Sherlock followed his gaze, and saw John through the screen door, hesitantly walking through the doorway.

He was paler, and there was a very slight tremor in his left hand. He looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, slightly gaping. Mycroft cleared his throat and then left without another word. As the front door closed, John looked at Sherlock, who avoided his gaze and looked at the floor.

“I just forgot my jacket,” John murmured, yet he stayed where he was.

“John—.”

“I don’t understand,” John said, his voice soft. He looked at Sherlock.

“You jumped. For me? And now you’re—”

“Crippled—”

“Disabled,” John said firmly. “Why would you—why, why me?” His breathing had increased, and he started to walk towards Sherlock.

“Moriarty had three snipers. One on you, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on Lestrade,” Sherlock explained quickly. “You would have been killed—.”

“But _you_ could have too,” John said, his voice cracking. “You almost _did_. Why me?”

Sherlock looked at him directly. “Because…” He trailed off but didn’t look away.

John remained standing. He was looking at Sherlock intently, his fists clenching slightly as if angry but his face was conveying both bewilderment and…was that affection?

After a minute of silence, John exhaled suddenly, and his face realized slightly with understanding, but also uncertainty. He shuffled his feet and unraveled his fists. “I—there are some things that I’ve always wanted to say, to you, Sherlock. I—when you jumped, those were the things that came into my mind as you fell. I thought I wouldn’t get another chance so…I need you to tell me why. Because I think I know now. I’ve been thinking about it for some time, but I wasn’t sure. So please, say it.”

Sherlock looked at him, but didn’t speak.

“Say it,” John pleaded, his voice nearly urgent.

Sherlock nodded. “Because, I love you.”

John inhaled sharply and clenched his eyes tight. He opened them, and blinked rapidly, and Sherlock realized with a pang in his chest that they were already glistening.

“Don’t get all emotion John, I don’t expect you to—.”

“To what?” John’s brows furrowed. “I—I love you too.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. A small smile of relief formed on John’s face, and it was the precious one, one Sherlock adored every time he saw it.

“You—.”

“Of course I do.”

“But you’re…not gay.”

John bit his lip. “No, I’m…” He sighed. “I’m bisexual. Always have been.” He added with a whisper.

Sherlock mouthed an “oh”, and a promise of a smile tugged at his lips. “There’s always something.”

John grinned softly. “I thought you were married to your work.”

“Well…” Sherlock looked down briefly before back up. “I’m not now.”

John’s smile faltered, but he regained it with a sympathetic touch as he stepped forward. “You’ll still solve cases. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re you. You’ll find a way. And if you can’t, then I will.”

Sherlock was still skeptical, but nodded. John came up to his side, and sat down on the sofa. He hesitated at first, and then raised his hand and gently caressed Sherlock’s cheek. He leaned forward until he was an inch away from Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could feel his hot breath against his cheek, and his cheeks heated.

“John…” Sherlock gasped.

“Mhm?” John was looking in his eyes; his own glistened like the depths of green forests with patches of blue shadows. “God, you’re so beautiful…”

Sherlock swallowed tightly. “Just kiss me already.”

John smirked as he leaned in and pressed his lips softly against Sherlock’s. Sherlock gasped against John’s lips. The kiss was gently and closed for a few moments, before John parted his lips slightly. Sherlock deepened the kiss and pressed forward; John let out a low moan, and quickly reciprocated, swirling his tongue against Sherlock’s and sucking lightly on his lower lip.

Sherlock moaned, arousing a grin against his lips from John. John trailed his hand down to Sherlock’s waist and scooted closer. Sherlock placed his hand on John’s arm and the other over his wrist. He could feel John’s pulse throbbing against his skin, surprising him.

Sherlock leaned back slightly to catch his breath, and casted his gaze downward. There was a noticeable bulge in John’s jeans. John had caught his breath, and started pressing kiss to Sherlock’s jaw and then trailing his lips down to his throat.

A sudden thought infiltrated in Sherlock’s mind. John was aroused, and would most likely want some kind of release. He surely knew Sherlock wouldn’t be able to, even if he wanted to.

John pressed forward gently until Sherlock fell back, resting his head against the pillow by the armrest. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides as he kissed his neck. Sherlock could feel John’s bulge pressing up against his waist, and felt aroused himself, but he couldn’t feel anything below his hips; not even the slightest hint of his arousal for the man on top of him. Sherlock tensed with uneasiness, and gently pushed John away.

“We should stop—.”

John leaned back, his brows furrowed with worry. “All right?” he murmured as he looked down on Sherlock.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock claimed, however his voice had faltered slightly.

“Do you not…want this?” John asked gently.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “I do but…” He pushed John off of him and sat up. John scooted backwards, expanding the space between them, which Sherlock immediately missed.

“Sherlock?” John pried gently.

Sherlock bit his lip before he spoke. “I don’t think we should…what if I can’t get like that?” He looked down, looking pointedly at the bulge in John’s pants.

John looked down, and then relaxed, realizing Sherlock’s meaning. “Sherlock,” he began softly, reaching up and cupping Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock looked at him hesitantly.

“If all we do is kiss and caress, then that is all we do. I’ll take as much as I give.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “But what about…that?” He pointed again, with his eyes.

John smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of it later.” He leaned forward to kiss him, but Sherlock held his hand up against his shoulder, keeping him back.

He bit his lip again and avoided John’s gaze. Sudden shyness crept in, and he swallowed tightly. “What if _I_ want to take care of it? For once I can do something for you,” he added in a mutter.

Sherlock glanced up, finding John gaping at him.

“Oh…” John blushed and bit his lip.

Sherlock trailed his hand down John’s cheek. “Let me…” he whispered. He trailed his hand down John face, down to his chest, and then rested it on his belt buckle. He met John’s eyes, and found them darkening with arousal; Sherlock unbuckled the belt, and then slowly unzipped John’s jeans. He slipped his hand into the opening, and gently palmed John’s cock.

John gasped, and blinked rapidly at the sensation. Sherlock moved his hand a couple of times over the cloth, and then started to slip his hand past the waistband, when John took hold of his wrist and held him in place.

“May I…straddle you?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and leaned back against the armrest. John carefully scooted closer and then straddled his thighs. Sherlock ran his hands along John’s legs, before reaching up and pulling John’s shirt over his head.

Sherlock’s eyes trailed across his faded golden skin, and traveled to his scar. With a closer look, it resembled a poinsettia, the raised skin almost like petals, lined with scars that surrounded the healed entry wound. It was slightly pinker than the rest of John’s skin, a faded shade similar to the vibrant blood colored flower John seemed to favor.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed around it, gently caressing the area with his tongue. At the same time, he placed his hand in between them and pulled the opening in John’s jeans wider.

“Sherlock,” John groaned. “Touch me.”

Sherlock leaned back and smirked at John’s rising impatience, and slipped his hand into John’s pants, and held his erection gently in his palm. John breathed heavily against him, and leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He trailed his lips across the skin, and then paused over Sherlock’s pulse, which was beating quickly against his lips.

Sherlock pulled long strokes up John’s cock, running his thumb over the tip before starting again. He started slowly, and picked up his past, earning low groans from the man on top of him.

John started thrusting upwards into Sherlock’s hand, holding onto his shoulders as if for dear life. He moaned Sherlock’s name, and Sherlock knew he was near the edge.

“I’ve got you, John. Come for me,” Sherlock panted.

John shuddered and moaned, his orgasm shaking through his body as Sherlock stroked him through it. As the pleasure subsided, he slouched forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s temple.

“You’re amazing,” John whispered. Sherlock blushed as he wiped his hand and refastened John’s jeans. He looked up and met John’s eyes, and what he found startled him. He flinched back to see John’s whole face, and found the emotion wasn’t his mind playing tricks.

John’s brows furrowed slightly, and he leaned back. He ran his thumb down Sherlock’s check. “All right?” he murmured.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. He refocused on John’s face and nodded, however uncertainty lingered. John’s eyes looked over his face for a moment before grinning, and then he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock lightly.

He reached for a pillow and placed it behind Sherlock, who leaned against it. John stretched out his legs and rested against his side, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around his abdomen.

“I love you,” John murmured. Sherlock tightened his embrace and buried his nose in John’s hair, breathing in.

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock exhaled, suddenly feeling a weight being lifted. As he started to fall into a light doze, a sensation trailed down his legs, leaving behind a sense of something missing.

*            *            *

“The flowers are growing quite nicely,” John remarked a few days later as he walked into the sitting room. John had been spending a great deal of time looking over them, and was even researching some, for whatever reason.

He walked up to Sherlock, who was in his chair reading the paper. He shuffled his feet, revealing he was anxious about something. Sherlock looked up from the paper, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re nervous.”

John huffed at Sherlock’s observation. “Er, yes I just…” he cleared his throat. “I want to show you something.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “If it’s the flowers, I can—.”

“No it’s not that, exactly. Just, let me get you’re shoes on. It’s quite a ways a way.”

John helped Sherlock with his shoes, and retrieved a packed bag from the kitchen.

“A picnic? Really, John?” Sherlock pointed out.

“It has some snacks. And a blanket,” John said with a shrug.

They left through the front door, and headed down a path that was parallel with the coast. Sherlock managed to wheel himself over the uneven bits, and followed John closely behind.

Twenty minutes later, they came to a clearing, a bed of grass and weeds overlooking the ocean. John pushed Sherlock into the field, as the thick grass proved difficulty, and then paused in the middle.

The view was truly spectacular. There weren’t any trees, so no shade, but the sky was nearly cloudless, and on the verge of a sunset. The sun shined down, providing a warm ray amidst the cool air. John pulled out a thick blanket and stretched it out over the plants.

John sat down, resting his palms behind him and leaned against them. His oatmeal jumper nearly blended in with the yellow flowers surrounding him, and appeared more faded than it really was in the sunlight. His body glowed with a light shade of gold, and a faint rosy blush surfaced on his cheeks. He looked out to the ocean, as Sherlock watched him, waiting for an explanation he knew was soon coming.

“Do you know what flowers these are?” John finally spoke.

Sherlock furrowed his brows briefly before looking around them. “Argyranthemums. Commonly known as daisies, marguerite, specifically. Why?”

John smiled softly and met Sherlock’s eye.

Sherlock stared at him. “Is that why you brought me here, to—?”

“No, there’s no reason, not really.” John looked away. “I came across it from when I took a walk one day, and I just through it was a really nice spot.” He bit his lip. “Do you, er, like it?”

Sherlock looked around, eyeing the daisies that surrounded them. It was surreal, and oddly comforting. The daises danced gently against the light breeze, and glowed a golden yellow against the sunrays. It was sentimental—the “loyal love” symbolism nearly screaming at him through the gentle wind, stinging his eyes.

“It’s…lovely,” he stated awkward. John smiled anyway and looked back at the ocean in front of them, unaware of Sherlock’s eyes glistening against the light.

They sat there in silence for several moments, and then it happened again. Months without another hint, Sherlock legs tingled, and he could feel the hair rising from the cold even though he was dressed in fairly thick sweatpants.

He inhaled sharply and looked down. He focused on his feet, straining his eyes until the edges blurred.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked and turned his head to look at John. John was halfway in standing up, and looking at him with uncertain.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, and hardened his face slightly to cover up whatever emotion he had let slip out.

“Take me back to the house,” Sherlock said as he started to wheel himself back to the path. John hesitated for moment, not expecting Sherlock’s tone, and then hastily packed up.

He quickly caught up to Sherlock and walked beside him as they made their way in silence to the house.

By the time they arrived, it was nearly dark, and Sherlock headed straight to the stairs, but stopped in his tracks when John spoke.

“Are you all right?” John asked, shuffling his feet with hesitation.

Sherlock didn’t turn around, and nodded. “I’m fine—.”

“Really?” John stepped forward, but then stopped. His voice was more stable but slow, as if he was thinking carefully what to say. “Because you seem distant.”

“I’m just tired.”

John shuffled again, and Sherlock could have sworn he heard him clench his fists.

“The last time you were…this distant, was the day you fell.”

Sherlock straightened up, his back tensing. “I’ve been tired before—.”

“Not like this. You know you can talk to me. It’s not easy, I know—.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock shot at him, turning around and squinting his eyes at him. His voice had quivered, but he didn’t care. “You can walk anywhere you want, so I’m starting to wonder why you haven’t left yet—.”

John flinched. “Left? I don’t want to leave—.”

“Why not?”

John stared at him. “I don’t know why you keep questioning this, I really don’t. I’ve said it in words, and tried to show you today, but you…you keep questioning it. I love you, Sherlock. I don’t want to leave you.”

“You say that now, but over time you’ll resent me.”

John’s eyes widened. “Resent you? You did this for me. I didn’t ask you to, but I’ve been making it up to you—.”

“Oh so guilt is forcing you to say—”

John scoffed. “Of course I feel guilty, but that’s not why I’m staying. For years you said you were a sociopath but then you jump of a roof for people. For me! And I want to make your life as easier as possible—.”

“It never was easy, this just makes it immobile.”

John stared him down, his face darkening. “You can have an ordinary life, Sherlock, if you want. It can be extraordinary if you make an attempt, but don’t think I’m just going to leave because life has become too hard.” He stepped forward until he was close enough, and then he knelt down and took Sherlock’s hands into his, holding them tight enough so Sherlock wouldn’t pull away. Sherlock avoided his gaze, and bit his lip.

“Everything I do, Sherlock, everything I’ve done has been for you. In the past week, it’s been for us. I don’t want you to go through this by yourself, and I don’t want you to think that this is temporary. I don’t talk about my feelings out loud often, but if you need me to say how I feel about you every day, then I will. I will tell you until you believe me, and I’ll show you. If it takes me a lifetime, than so be it. I nearly lost you, and this is my second chance, so I’m not wasting it.”

John breathed heavily, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, moving his face up to meet his gaze. Sherlock swallowed tightly, and then nodded roughly, his curls bouncing around his face.

“John…” he choked. John leaned forward and captured his lips in a sloppy kiss. He tilted his head and readjusted the angle, and deepened the kiss. Sherlock kissed him back desperately, trailing his hands down his face and cradling his jaw. John clung to his shirt, bringing him as close as possible.

After several moments, Sherlock broke the kiss, catching his breath. John breathed heavily against his lips, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls on the back of his head.

“I did it for you,” Sherlock murmured. “I’d do it again if it meant you’d be saved.”

John swallowed and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I know. And I love you for that. You’re the most human—human being that I’ve ever known. And I’m not leaving. No matter what.”

Sherlock nodded, his uncertainly nearly subsided, apart from a lingering thought.

_He’d get bored eventually, so do everything to make sure he stays._

John leaned away slightly, and ran his thumb down Sherlock’s cheek. “Believe me?”

Sherlock blinked and met his gaze. “I’ll try,” he confessed after a moment.

John looked at him with a sad gleam in his eyes, and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I’ll do everything I can to prove it to you,” he murmured. Sherlock held him tighter, wishing he had the will to believe him completely.

That evening, Sherlock hesitantly came into John’s room, only to be greeted by a warm smile.

“Do you want to sleep in here?” John asked. He was already in his pajamas and on his bed, reading.

Sherlock nodded and wheeled to the other side of the bed. He had already changed, and was in his pajamas as well. He wheeled past the dresser, but a piece of paper caught his eye. He looked at it; diagrams of odd positions involving two people was drawn out, and as Sherlock realized what the figures were doing, his eyes widened and he looked at John.

John had seen him examine the paper, and now was blushing.

“Er, Dr. Dmitri gave that to me during his first visit. We weren’t together so I was going to toss it…”

Sherlock looked back at the paper, and looked over each one, deciding on which would be easy to try first. He glanced up at John, who was still blushing.

“Do you want to—?”

“Yes,” John replied quickly. He bit his lip. “I mean, if you—.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with an affectionate smile. “Which should we do first?”

John laughed nervously and crawled to the end of the bed. He set his feet on the floor and faced Sherlock.

“I think you should pick—.”

Sherlock furrowed your eyebrows. “But you’d be the one to get off—.”

John smirked at Sherlock’s word choice, and gently shook his head. “Your injury was incomplete, so there’s a chance you can be…aroused. Physical touch may do the trick.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “But before—.”

“I asked Dr. Dmitri, yesterday. I didn’t know it was possible in your condition…” John trailed off. He leaned forward until he was close enough to Sherlock but not touching him. Sherlock swallowed tightly and looked up and down his face.

Sherlock’s face must have constructed to what he wanted, because before he could continue the conversation, John leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. Sherlock shyly kissed back; neither of them made a move to go any further for a moment.

John parted his lips, and Sherlock leaned forward, deepening the kiss with his tongue. He moved his lips against John’s, earning a throaty moan from the man.

They kissed for a few minutes, before Sherlock leaned back, his cheeks heated.

“I need to feel you.”

“God yes.”

John leaned back and pulled his shirt over his head. Sherlock did the same, and the both leaned back into each other; John cupped Sherlock’s cheeks and cradled his head as he kissed him passionately. Sherlock clutched at his waist, pulling him as close as possible without having him fall off the bed.

“John—.” Sherlock moaned against John’s lips. John hummed and began pressing wet kisses down Sherlock’s neck. He lowered his hands and gripped John’s thighs, feeling his arousal bulging through his pajamas.

“We—.” Sherlock gently pushed John back just enough to see his face. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he breathed.

John breathed heavily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re already hard, and I’m not. How do we know that I will get like that?”

John’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward, his lips nearly smirking. He paused right by Sherlock’s ear, and then whispered. Sherlock shivered at his voice, suddenly feeling excitement flow through his body.

“Let’s see if I can help,” John purred deeply. He slid his hand through the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and gave his flaccid cock a long gently pull.

“John—.” Sherlock let out a throaty gasp, and he fluttered his eyes closed. John continued stroking him, murmuring incoherent words however Sherlock could sense the praising tone beneath his voice.

After a few moments, Sherlock felt himself getting hard, and he opened his eyes and glanced down. His cock was peaking out of his pants, and John’s hand was stroking it, his speed picking up. His strokes were nearly right, and he ran his thumb over the top.

Sherlock moaned with pleasure and attempted to lift his hips to meet John’s hand. His hips only shifted slightly, but he didn’t let that stop him. He moaned John’s name, desperate to express just how felt he was making him feel.

He quickly started feeling the edge, and quickly placed his hand on John’s hand, holding it still.

“Wait, not yet,” Sherlock gasped, his voice rough with pleasure. John grinned and leaned back. His own erection was peaking through his waistband, and Sherlock suddenly felt his cheeks heat—however more can he blush!

“How do you want me?” John murmured seductively.

Sherlock creased his eyebrows, recalling the diagrams shown in the pamphlet. “I don’t think I have enough upper body strength to go on the bed…”

“That’s all right. I can lay down and you can lay over me, or…”

A sudden want popped in Sherlock’s head. “Can I…suck you?”

John licked his lips. “Yes, yes.” He removed his trousers and pants, and then lay down on the bed. Sherlock wheeled to the edge as close as he could, and then John scooted forward.

“Where do you want my legs?”

“Over my shoulders.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied hungrily. John grinned and placed his legs over Sherlock’s shoulders. He leaned forward and began pressing faint kisses on the inside of John’s thigh. John was already wiggling beneath him, his fists loosely clenching the duvet.

John gasped as Sherlock wrapped his mouth around the tip of John’s cock, his hand shooting to clutch at Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock began swirling his tongue around his cock, tasting John. As John’s whimpers began growing more frantic, Sherlock placed his tongue at the base of John’s cock, licking upwards in one swift motion. As he placed his right hand underneath John’s balls, cradling them, he placed his left hand on John’s thigh, slightly stroking it. And in one swift motion, Sherlock swallowed down on John’s cock, resulting in a hefty groan from the man. Sherlock sucked, licking his tongue upwards until his reddened lips were at the tip.

He went back down, swallowing saliva and the taste of John, until his nose was practically buried in the patch of light brown hair that defined John’s body. He pulled back up, licking and sucking John’s cock, moving his right hand towards his own and stroking himself. He glanced up at John, whose eyes were fighting to stay open. His cheeks were flushed crimson, and his mouth was agape as he let out deep moans.

“Sherl-“ John rasped. He tightened one hand in Sherlock’s curls, and tightened his other fist in the duvet.

“Sherlock—.” John’s voice grew urgent, but Sherlock kept going. John came with a lengthy shout, his back arching against the bed. He jerked upwards into Sherlock’s mouth; Sherlock swiftly swallowed his release, and then gently pulled off. He looked at John and found him gasping for breath as he shuddered.

John slowly relaxed and loosened his grip. He sat up against his elbows and looked at Sherlock with heated affection.

“Let me take care of you now.”

Sherlock leaned back slightly as John knelt before him. He stroked his hard aching cock, and sucked his throat, no doubt leaving a mark, for several minutes. Sherlock came in John’s hand with the man’s name on his lips, and slouched forward, resting his forehead on John’s shoulder.

He barely processed anything as John cleaned them off, and helped him into bed. As Sherlock was drifting asleep, his energy completely gone, he snuggled against John, wrapping his arm around his middle.

“John…” He murmured for no reason.

“Hush, love. Go to sleep,” John murmured gently. The last thing Sherlock felt as he fell into a blissful sleep was a light kiss pressed against his cheekbone.

*            *            *

Sherlock sat in his chair, reaching forward as he turned on the shower. It was the beginning of November, and had even snowed in the middle of the night. Most of it had melted by mid-morning, but it was still pretty cold, and John had decided to stay in the warm blankets. Sherlock had managed to convince him he could shower without help, and was just doing fine so far.

A sensation tingled below Sherlock’s waist, startling him. He sat still and focused on the feeling. It was still there, and he started to feel the warm mist from the shower spray onto his legs.

Taking in a deep breath, he reached for the walker they kept in the bathroom, and brought it in front of him. He hesitated, and then ran his fingers down his leg. The faintest whisper of his fingertips tingled the hairs on his leg, and he inhaled sharply.

He fought to keep his hopes from rising, but did anyway as he reached for the walker. He placed his hands on either side, and carefully lifted himself from the chair. He saw himself in the mirror, and noticed he was standing. He inhaled slowly and looked at his feet. He felt heavy for some reason, and noticed a settle amount of wetness against his feet.

He pushed the walker forward, and then focused on his feet, urging himself to move. He shifted his right foot an inch, and exhaled with disbelief. He leaned forward against the walker, and attempted again.

The walker slide suddenly against the wet floor, and Sherlock leaned with it before he could stabilize his stance, and fell forward. He put his hands out to stop himself, but fell anyways, landing on his right wrist.

Sherlock grimaced and attempted to sit up, but couldn’t feel the sensation anymore. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, he reached for the walker, but it was on its side, out of his grasp.

The door opened slightly, and John peeked through. Noticing Sherlock on the floor, he walked forward, and knelt down beside Sherlock.

“Sherlock—.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. He cringed at his tone, and avoided John’s gaze. John helped him back into his chair, and turned off the shower. He stopped in his tracks, and Sherlock glanced up, finding John staring at his wrist.

Sherlock looked down and realized his wrist was already a faint shade of purple. Sherlock sighed with defeat and looked away.

John reached under the sink and pulled out a first aid kit. He silently wrapped Sherlock’s wrist with elastic bandages.

“You should keep it wrapped up for a bit. I don’t think it’s broken, but no any hard movements. And don’t get it wet.”

Sherlock bit his lip, and attempted to divert the conversation. “I guess I won’t be able to give you any hand jobs.”

John’s movements faltered as he suddenly let out a giggle. He cut himself off and glanced up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him with a small grin, and John smiled at him.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” John replied. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s lips chastely. Sherlock leaned forward to deepen it, but John pulled away.

“Shower first. You smell like day old sex.”

Sherlock huffed with laughter, and then restarted the shower. John watched him until he was in, and then started to leave, before pausing by the door.

“I was going to go check on the flowers quickly. You’d be okay for a little bit.”

“Yes.” Sherlock met his gaze, and after a moment, John nodded, and then left.

John made his way to the garden, and quickly watered the flowers. One of the front doors slammed closed. Unsure what that was, John wandered outside. He looked around but didn’t see anybody, and then headed back towards the garden shed. He stopped in his tracks, and looked through the window. There was a fire on the stove, and already spreading towards the rest of the house. Panicking, he hurried to the front doors and tried to open them, only to find them both locked. He banged against the door, but then gave up and went around to the garden shed.

John pulled the door open only to find a figure facing him. Before he had time to react, the man pulled out a gun and fired.

*            *            *

As Sherlock finished showering, he dressed and then entered the hallway. An alarm was beeping loudly, and he realized quickly the hallway was hazy with smoke.

“John?” Sherlock called out. He wheeled himself to his bedroom, and then John’s, but found both empty.

The smoke was thickening, and he looked down the stairs to see a small fire slowly rising in the kitchen.

_Uh oh._

A figure appeared at the foot of the stairs, and raced up. Sherlock immediately knew it wasn’t John, and hurried to his bedroom. He slammed the door and locked it, and then rushed to the window. The smoke was thick in his room, and he tried to open the window, but couldn’t reach the lock.

There was a bang against the door, and then a short time after, the sound of a gunshot.

Trying not the panic, Sherlock looked around for anything he could throw against the window. There was nothing, and the smoke was already stinging his throat and his eyes. He coughed roughly, and leaned forward against the wall. He stood up, leaned his weight against the window, and reached up for the lock. His hand throbbed, and attempted to shift his body to use his other hand, but lost contact with the wall, and fell onto his side, hitting his head against the chair, succumbing to darkness.

*            *            *

John crawled to the garden shed, trying not to take deep breaths. His chest felt as if it was on fire, but he ignored it the best he could, and pushed himself up. He leaned against the wall, and quickly limped into the house.

The smoke stung his eyes, and the heat overwhelmed him. He looked around, and quickly headed towards the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

There was no answer, and so he quickly hurried up the steps. He headed into his room, and retrieved his gun, and then headed back to the hallway.

He pressed his hand onto his wound, feeling the warm blood against his palm, and he noticed his blue striped jumper was already soaked with blood and sweat.

John stumbled to Sherlock’s room, and opened the door, but found it locked. Taking that as a good sigh, and banged against it, trying to dislodge it. There was a noise behind him, and he spun around and ducked just as a fist came flying at his face. The man grunted as he punched the door, and rounded to John. John raised his gun at the intruder and fired once.

The man fell backwards, and remained still. John stumbled to the door and banged hard.

“Sherlock! Are you in there?”

He waited for a second, but didn’t hear anything, so he took a step back and rushed forward, slamming his good shoulder into the door. It budged, but not completely. He did it again, and it collapsed open.

John hurried inside, and rushed forward. Sherlock was on the floor by the window, unmoving.

He knelt beside him and checked his pulse, finding it steady. He pulled Sherlock towards him and lifted him up into his arms. He rushed out the room and headed towards the stairs. They were still intact, but he could see the flames rising from the kitchen.

John hurried down them, carrying Sherlock close to his chest. He stumbled as he reached the bottom; the flames tingled his skin, covering his jumper with soot. His chest was suddenly hurting but he took shallow breaths as he headed to the back door.

The fire had spread, and was blocking their way. Trying hard not to panic, John turned around towards the kitchen. The path to the front doors was clear enough, but the flames were starting to encircle them. John ran as fast as he could, and headed towards the doors. He slammed against them with his shoulder, careful not to slam Sherlock against the hard wood.

The doors buckled forward and already were catching fire as they collapsed sideways. John sprinted away.

Upon reaching the grass, he tumbled forward until he was well away from the burning house, and then fell onto his knees. He dragged Sherlock forward, and examined his head.

It was only a small gash, and Sherlock was already starting to wake up.

Sherlock coughed and blinked up to see John staring down at him.

“John?” Sherlock croaked. His throat stung dry and his skin felt tight and warm.

John sighed with relief and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. He inhaled, but then coughed roughly. He started to sit back, but then sudden pain shot through his abdomen and chest, and his hand automatically covered his wound.

“John…” Sherlock’s eyes trailed to his hand, and widened when he saw the blood.

“Shot, you were shot…” Sherlock stuttered. He sat up quickly and reached for John. John shifted away, shaking his head.

“I’m fine. It’s just a…” John trailed off and blinked heavily. The pain was suddenly getting to him, and he lost his strength and lay on his back. Sherlock shifted towards him, and looked over him.

“John…”

“Sherlock…is there anyway we can call someone? Mycroft or—.” John coughed roughly and grimaced. Sherlock placed his hand over the wound and pressed gently.

“There’s surveillance so he should…be here soon. He—.”

Sirens echoed from afar, and relief flooded Sherlock’s mind.

“John, help is here. Do you hear that?”

John opened eyes slightly and met Sherlock’s gaze. He took hold of his hand and squeezed.

“You’re not hurt are you?”

Sherlock inhaled roughly. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against John’s.

“I am fine, John. You’re an idiot—why did you come back for me?”

John scoffed lightly. “Of course I came back to you. Don’t question it.”

Sherlock sniffed and ran a hand through John’s hair. An ambulance appeared from down the road, and a black truck was following close behind it.

“John, stay awake.” Sherlock shook John gently. John blinked rapidly, fighting off the temptation.

“I’m so tired…” John trailed off and closed his eyes. Sherlock shook him harder.

“John—.” His voice hitched, but John didn’t wake up.

First responders surrounded the pair, and quickly placed John on a stretcher and taking him to the ambulance. One of them helped Sherlock into a wheelchair, and loaded him into the truck. Mycroft was inside, his face masked with simple concern, but Sherlock could tell he was troubled.

Sherlock remained quiet as they were taken to the hospital.

The hospital staff checked for any serious injuries, and then observed his back. After a while of waiting, an orthopedic doctor entered the room.

Sherlock stared at him, unsure why he was there, which irritated him.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I have some good news.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unsure how anything could be good news.

“You apparently have recovered some of your sensory back in your legs. Let me run some tests to show you…”

The doctor gently ran his pen over Sherlock’s leg, and he involuntary flinched from the coldness. He couldn’t process what was happening, since all he wanted was to know if John was all right, but the doctor was overly persistent, and annoyingly cheerful.

“It’s not unheard of, to recover some sense after paralysis.”

Sherlock barely processed it, but by the look of Mycroft’s shocked face, it was apparently good news.

The doctor continued. “If you keep up with your exercises, and with extensive practice, you may just walk again—not completely, but you should be able to do so with crutches. But that could be years from now. But it’s not impossible.”

He left with a cheerful smile, and then Sherlock was provided with a clean set of scrubs and a temporary chair before being left alone with Mycroft.

He didn’t say a word until they were in the lobby while John was taken into surgery.

“The intruder was part of Moriarty’s network,” Sherlock stated without looking at his brother.

“Yes. We had just tracked him down to the town where you were, and acted as quickly as possible. He was the last known associate. There are still small groups but we have eyes on them.”

“So it’s over. Sooner than you thought.”

“We’ll still be keeping an eye out for some time, but yes, it’s over now. After John recovers, you can return back to Baker Street.”

They remained silent for several hours, and then the doctor appeared. He led the way to John’s room, and then Mycroft said his farewell as Sherlock wheeled to John’s bedside.

John was hooked onto too many machines, and he looked small and vulnerable in the large bed and against the alabaster sheets. Sherlock bit his lip and took John’s hand, squeezing it gently. He stayed awake for a few hours, observing John’s ragged breathing, before leaning forward and resting his head against John’s hand.

*            *            *

Sherlock woke up with a start, and realized the man in the bed was fidgeting. A doctor entered just as Sherlock realized something could be wrong.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock asked, ignoring that his voice was shaking.

“He’s waking up. We’ll take the tube out, and he may be groggy for a few hours before he’s lucid.” The doctor gently pulled the tube out with the aid of the nurse, and John coughed roughly. He inhaled deeply but remained asleep.

“Give him time.” The doctor and nurse left. Sherlock wheeled closer and retook John’s hand. A little more than an hour passed before John shifted again.

He licked his lips and parted his eyes slightly. It took him a bit to meet Sherlock’s gaze, and the tiredness nearly vanished as he started to wake fully.

“Sher…” John trailed off and licked his lips. He directed his gaze to the water pitcher, and Sherlock took the hint. He poured John a generous amount of water, and then helped him take a sip through the straw.

John cleared his throat and lay back against the pillow. “All right?”

Sherlock stared at him and took his hand back into his. “You shouldn’t be asking _me_ , John,” he mumbled. John smiled weakly.

“Can’t help it.”

Sherlock glanced at him, and smiled softly back. “You’re going to be all right, John.”

John inhaled deeply. “Good. That’s good…and you?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to their conjoined hands. John lifted his hand and ran it through Sherlock’s curls, trialing it down and caressing his cheek.

John looked at the space he made and silently told Sherlock what he wanted. Sherlock sighed, and carefully stood up. It took him a bit to coordinate his limbs, but managed to lie down beside him. John snuggled closer and breathed in deeply, already falling asleep. Sherlock stayed awake for a while longer, before falling asleep himself, burying his face in John’s hair to remind him that everything was okay.

*            *            *

John stepped stiffly to the front door of 221B, and unlocked it. There was a wreath on the door, and bells jingled as he opened it. Someone had built a ramp to the entrance, so Sherlock had no difficulty in entering. John closed the door behind them, grimacing slightly from the movement.

“You should have stayed one more day,” Sherlock pointed out. John shook his head, dismissing his comment.

“I was in the hospital for more a month. One day more and I would have lost my mind.”

Sherlock smirked, and wheeled to the stairs. He froze. He hadn’t even thought about it, and realizing it now felt like a slap in the face.

“Sherlock?” John stepped forward and looked at him. “What is it?”

“It’s the stairs—.”

“Actually,” John interrupted him, his face forming a grin that he was failing to hide. “Come here.”

John led him to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and paused outside the door. On the wall was a gate, which definitely wasn’t there before.

Sherlock gaped at it. “An elevator?”

John nodded enthusiastically. “I made sure Mycroft had it installed, quite a while ago. I wanted it to be ready whenever we returned.”

Sherlock wheeled to see it closer. “Where does it lead to?”

“To the wall, right by the stairs that lead up to my old room.”

Sherlock glanced up, surprised. “John…”

“Yes, yes I know. I’m the best man in London,” he said teasingly. Sherlock smiled, and with a simple tilt of his head, requested John to lean forward. John met him the rest of the way and kissed him deeply. Sherlock broke the kiss, and whispered against John’s lips.

“In the world.”

John’s grin widened as Sherlock wheeled inside. John followed, and then they were lifted up to their flat.

Sherlock entered the familiar sitting room, breathing in the smell of home. John sat their bags down and sat in his armchair, sighing with relief.

Sherlock wheeled towards him. “Now what?”

John sat forward. “Now I shower off this hospital scent and sleep comfortable in your bed for a week.”

“Our bed.” Sherlock corrected him. John grinned.

Before John could lean in for another kiss, there was a knock on the door. They both turned to greet their guest, who sauntered into the room, her face beaming.

“Oh, my boys!” Mrs. Hudson gathered Sherlock in a tight hug, his chair proving not an inconvenience. She let him go and went towards John, who stood up and greeted her in a hug as well.

“So nice to have you back. And just in time for the holidays!”

Sherlock’s grin faltered, and John bit back a laugh.

“Yes, well I was hoping to have a few guests over.” John briefly looked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. “But we’ll see.”

“Ah, it’ll be lovely. I’ll make you two a cuppa, just this once.”

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson.”

After having tea and Mrs. Hudson leaving, Sherlock and John retired to the sofa, Sherlock lying back, and John resting against his side.

“Christmas is in a few days. Would you mind having people over?” John asked.

Sherlock shifted, and sighed. “What people?”

“Oh, well, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. It’ll be nice.”

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “Fine. But not until the evening.”

“What, you want to have me all to yourself?” John smiled teasingly.

“Well I do have a surprise for you.”

“Really? For me?”

“Mhm, yes.”

John hummed. “Let’s see if I could guess it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Really? Well, I have a surprise for you too.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Hm…”

“Don’t bother trying to guess it. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Sherlock chuckled. John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling. Sherlock held him closer, and the both of them fell into a light doze as it started to snow outside their window.

*            *            *

“Keep your eyes closed,” John said. Sherlock did so, however finding it common. He hadn’t been able to figure out what the surprise was, which irritated him, yet he wouldn’t admit he found the new experience of not knowing rather interesting. He had yet to give John’s gift, but John wanted to go first.

“Just a second…” Sherlock could hear John assembly something, but it was hard to tell exactly what it was.

John stepped back and stood by the table. Sherlock was facing the fireplace, feeling pathetic as seconds ticked back.

“All right, open.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, and gasped at what he saw. It was a wheelchair, but the backrest was smaller, and there weren’t any handles. The wheels were slanted slightly on the sides, and the whole chair was considerably smaller than the one he was sitting in.

He stared at it in silence, and briefly noticed John’s anticipation rising.

John shuffled his feet. “It's meant for athletes, the wheels are slanted and made for faster speed and it's easier to brake, and very light too, so I could carry it up the stairs.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “You're going to hurt your own back if you keep doing that.”

“I don't mind. Do you…like it?”

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes. He reopened his eyes and looked up at John.

“It's perfect, John. I had thought…”

“Mhm, yes?”

“That…” Sherlock trailed off. He had thought John would leave eventually, once they were settled back at 221B, and taking less cases. He would leave because he wouldn’t be getting the thrill he wanted. But this, this was proving he was staying, wasn’t it? He was providing Sherlock with what he always loved doing—solving cases. So it was ensuring John wouldn't leave, at least not yet.

“So you're staying then?” Sherlock blurted out.

John furrowed his eyebrows. “Of course I—oh.” He sighed heavily and knelt down beside Sherlock.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, his own gleaming against the fire currently burning under the mantle.

“If you don't ever solve another case again," he began slowly. “I'll still be here. If you work on cases until you’re 80 years old, I'll still be here, waiting to retire with you.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Really?”

“Yes really. I'm here for the rest of my life. Then we can retire together, wherever and whenever you want.”

 _Is that enough?_ Sherlock asked himself. He hated doubting himself, but it seemed unbelievable, that someone would stay with him, despite all of his sulks and obsessions, and despite his physical state.

Sherlock looked away, but John gently cupped his cheek and tilted his face up.

“Marry me.” John whispered.

Sherlock widened his eyes and gaped.

“What?”

John smiled. “You heard me.”

Sherlock’s heart sped up, and a sudden swell of emotion fell over him.

“Yes,” he breathed. John’s smiled widened and he kissed Sherlock deeply. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck, and pulled him in closer.

John leaned back. “Now about my surprise…”

Sherlock smirked. “Later,” he said, and leaned back to kiss his partner.

Later that night, after countless cups of mulled wine and a chase around in his new chair, chasing John and catching him every time, the pair were under the warm blankets, with John spooning him. Sherlock suddenly realized just how happy he was. He shifted in his embrace and gently kissed John’s cheek. John shifted awake, and met his gaze.

“Mhm?”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“My surprise…”

“Oh yeah, what is it?”

“It’ll be a wedding present.”

John chuckled. “All right.” He closed his eyes, but Sherlock shook him gently to keep him awake.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you too. Now go to sleep.”

*            *            *

_One Year Later._

John paced around the front of the room. He was in a courtroom, surrounded by poinsettias, which for some reason, Sherlock had requested. However, Sherlock was running late.

“He’s not second guessing is he?” John asked Lestrade.

“No, he’s probably making sure his hair’s just right.”

John laughed nervously. Mrs. Hudson was standing beside Lestrade, already pulling out some tissues.

Just then the door opened, and Sherlock appeared, Molly right behind him. She was holding something, but John couldn’t tell what it was, and directed his attention to the man he was about to marry.

Halfway into the room, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. John furrowed his brows, and clenched his fists to ease his nerves.

Sherlock looked up at Molly and gave her a brief nod. She stood beside him, and to John surprise, held out an arm. Sherlock slowly stood up, taking what was actually a forearm crutch from Molly and placing it on his right arm. She attached the other one, and Sherlock leaned forward, gaining his balance.

Stunned, John watched Sherlock as he slowly walked further into the room, which suddenly looked more like an aisle than a courtroom.

After a while, Sherlock reached John, and smiled at him. John wiped his face, his eyes filling up with tears. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and kissed his cheek, and then whispered in his ear.

“Was this the surprise?”

Sherlock nodded, and his smile only grew. John blinked hard, a couple for tears leaking out.

“It’s something I can do for you. Last year, at the hospital, I was told I was gaining back some sensory, and with practice, could walk a little bit. Molly helped.”

John looked over Sherlock shoulder and nodded to her, silently thanking her.

“I love you no matter what, Sherlock…”

“I know. But this is something for the both of us.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. John smiled, and kissed his cheek.

“Ready to get started,” the officiator asked.

John cleared his throat and nodded.

After the beginning introductions, John was first to read his vow. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and took his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are my miracle. You are the best, wisest man that I’ve ever known. You’re the strongest person, and most human, and I—I almost lost you. But you saved me, so many times and in so many ways, and I owe you so much. No matter what, I will always be by your side, always.”

John’s voice hitched at the last word, and he sniffled. He grinned at Sherlock and squeezed his hand, before unraveling his left one and slowly placing a gold band over his finger.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then spoke.

“John Watson, you are the bravest, kindest, wisest human being that I’ve had the good fortune of knowing. It took me so long to accept the fact that you will never leave, and I walked to you today for the first time in more than a year, and I’ve never been prouder of myself. Everything—as much as I can, I’ll do it from here on out, and will be for you, and will be for us.”

Sherlock placed John’s gold ring over his finger, and squeezed his hand.

John smiled and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neck. He pulled him closer, and then kissed him deeply. Sherlock pulled back, just enough to whisper against John’s lips.

“Dinner?”

“Starving.” John smiled, and kissed him again, feeling Sherlock’s grin against his.

The small group of people clapped, and a few sniffled with joyous tears. They gathered around, clapping the pair on their backs and praising them.

“Um, excuse me lads,” Lestrade interrupted. “Congratulations to the both of you, but I just got a call of a murder in an apartment complex. Locked doors and windows, I’d say it could be a wedding present.”

John looked up at Sherlock, a smirk forming on his face. Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

“What about our sex holiday?”

John giggled. “What’s a holiday without a case?”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, and smirked. He took a couple of steps towards his chair, and sat down, handing Molly his crutches.

“Molly, take these back to our flat. Come on, John.” Sherlock followed Lestrade, as John followed him.

“So the game is still on then?” John remarked.

“Oh yes. Just new players this time.” Sherlock glanced up, beaming. John quickly leaned forward and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head before allowing him to speed up.

Sherlock did, but looked up at John. “You don’t mind?”

John smiled and shook his head.

“The world needs us.”

Sherlock smiled back, and then led the way out the doors, with John right beside him.

**Author's Note:**

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